Day 21:
I can't believe it. I've lasted three weeks since the infection hit full force. Three Fridays ago we were all quarantined. I've never seen Los Angeles in such a state before. Cops, the army, the National guard in every direction. So many guns that when I looked around, all I could see was the flash of steel.
They told us it was no longer safe in the city; the infection had spread quicker than anyone had anticipated. In less than two days the symptoms of those treated altered drastically and they became violent, exhibiting various signs of psychosis. I took notes about it all in my books: those who had been in contact with the Krippen Virus were characterized by derangement of personality, and loss of contact with reality, and deterioration of normal human behaviour. They exhibited a much more aggressive and cannibalistic personality. I wanted to be a psychiatrist one day. Now there's nobody left to analyze.
No one was safe. They spread across the city like the disease they were, leaving a trail of blood and gore and death in their wake. My daddy, he was a cop. When I saw one of them for the first time... I'll never forget it.
It was late. The radio was on full volume as we packed our stuff. Dad was yelling to us that we could only take what was necessary. Sarah and I were too scared to think straight at that point. Mom was the one who organized us, got us moving, helped us focus. With her we managed to snap ourselves out of our torpor and help her pack emergency clothing, some money, and a bit of food, just enough rations to carry with us. Everything else had to be left behind.
Dad was getting his badge from the upstairs bedroom when I saw it.
It stopped at the foot of the driveway. I looked right at it. It didn't see me at first; it was just standing there, its shoulders shaking rapidly with its hyperventilation. Their lungs didn't work as well as ours do; I documented that as well.
Then it turned. God, it turned so quickly. It looked right into my eyes, and I stared back: there was nothing left in them, no flicker of life, no intelligence. Just one thing.
A terrible, unadulterated hunger.
It let out the most terrible cry I've ever heard. A loud, grating shriek that tore through the night like a piercing foghorn, ripping the air apart. I could see its mouth wide open, its broken and jagged teeth glinting in the moonlight. I could see all the dried blood caked to its face, and fresher layers of it dripping from its mouth and coursing down its throat. To this day I still wake up at night, coursed in cold sweat, remembering that awful image, which has branded itself into the backs of my eyes.
I'll never forget it.
That was the first time I saw the Infected. That was the first time I've heard one scream.
Before I could even draw breath it was moving – so fast, how did they get so fast? – letting out those shrieks and howls as it bounded up the driveway on all fours, froth pouring from between its teeth. I couldn't move; my legs had turned to jelly. The most I could manage was an involuntary twitch before the Infected launched itself at the window, right at me.
The shattering of the glass awoke me and brought my senses back. I screamed. I screamed so loud I'm surprised that the TV didn't shatter, that the cans of non perishable food items in the cupboards didn't implode, that the Infected's ears didn't suddenly run rampant with blood. God, I screamed so loud.
But it got me in midair, and one of its rotting, translucent hands clamped itself over my throat. My scream withered and died.
It had me pinned, straddling me above the waist like some sick sex fanatic. One hand was over my mouth, the other pinning my left arm. Its nails were as sharp as daggers, ripping into my shirt and bra and leaving red streaks across my chest.
Its face was suddenly lit with this horrible smile – a smile that seemed akin to a grimace. All of its teeth were bared, its translucent lips stretched across its decaying gums, the redness at the corners of its eyes pulsating with anticipation of the feast to come. I couldn't even tell if it was male or female to begin with.
It leaned over my throat, and that's when the first bullet caught it in the chest.
I felt its weight suddenly wrenched away from me. I couldn't hear; my ears were ringing from the explosion of my father's gun. I looked to my side, and through the silver blur of my tears I could see him, standing so impressive in the doorway, shining through my tears and looking like an angel shrouded in white.
He aimed again, fired. Another thunderclap in my head; all my senses bellowed in protest. Through the haze and burnt smell of gunpowder I dimly heard an agonized shriek. As I looked over to my other side, still lying on the floor, I saw the Infected struggling to its feet, its screams slowly transforming into those of rage. It erupted, running at my daddy with the force of a bull elephant. He squeezed off two more thunderbolt shots but it got him, it got him.
They both went flying through the doorway. I could hear his grunts and the Infected's snarling as they wrestled. I got to my feet, slowly and agonizingly, my ears still hurting from the gunshots, screaming at myself to move faster. He could die, you idiot. He could die because you're not getting to him fast enough. He could be dying right now, and it would be your fault, because he was saving you.
I moved faster.
When I staggered through the doorway, I saw them thrashing about on the floor like a pair of dogs in heat – only dogs wouldn't have been trying to claw each other to death. The Infected was swiping and scratching at my father, who was – barely – holding it at bay with one hand, and reaching for his gun with the other. It had fallen from his hand when the Infected tackled him, just out of reach of his desperate, twitching fingers.
"Run!" Daddy choked out, before the Infected slapped a sickening hand over his mouth. I felt a wave of revulsion and fury as I remembered the sensation. My dad wrenched his head to the side, freeing his mouth, and again he cried: "run!"
I couldn't. I couldn't leave him. But I heard a sob from upstairs and I knew Mom was hiding with Sarah – Daddy had told her that at all costs they had to protect us. Even if he died, he said. Hide, stay away from them, and keep the children safe.
Mom and Sarah were hiding upstairs. I was his only hope. I couldn't go closer – the thing would kill me.
Coward, I screamed in my own head. Filthy coward, get over there and help him!
On shaking, unstable legs I moved forward. My dad's eyes bulged as he saw me go closer towards the Infected. "No –" he tried, but the Infected took a swing at his face and he had to jerk his head back to avoid it, the tendons in his neck jutting out like stiff wires.
I leaned over and felt the cold steel of the revolver in my hand. It felt alien... wrong in my grip. I raised it with unsteady fingers, even as my dad's eyes grew even wider, as he wordlessly begged me to run.
I wouldn't do it. I aimed the gun – it was so heavy, weighing my arms down, they hurt – and I pointed the barrel at the thrashing pair.
Suddenly I was hit with a sharp stab of panic. What if I missed? I had never even touched a gun before, let alone fired one. Dad absolutely forbade us to have any contact with firearms. I could just as easily shoot him as that thing.
I tightened my finger around the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Run!"
Run!
No, fire, kill it, save him, NOW!
Casting aside all panic, all doubt, closing my eyes, I pulled again, this time with more force. The weapon in my hands bucked like an angry bull, wrenching itself backward, and I stumbled away and fell to the floor, the gun falling from my limp hands. But I knew I had been successful – that blinding, ringing sensation in my ears, even more powerful and strong since it had erupted right next to my face, was a surefire sign that the thunderbolt had hit.
A loud, pained shriek rent the air, and my dad shoved the Infected away as it thrashed and scrabbled at its leg, where dark blood was coursing out in rivulets. He scrambled backward, grabbed the gun where it had fallen, and aimed at the Infected.
With one shot, its life came apart with its head.
All I could hear was the painful, fast beating of my heart, and my dad gasping for breath.
I don't know how long I lay there – it seemed like eons, but it can't have been, because then Daddy was there, picking me up, whispering to me, carrying me upstairs, where Mom and Sarah were. They came from a closet, faces streaked with tears. Mom let out a gut wrenching sob and attached herself to us, Sarah at her side. We stood there, enfolded, still one family, even as the world went to hell around us.
I didn't know it then, because my dad had hidden it so well. He was wearing a long sweater, so we couldn't see. I couldn't see the long, jagged tear the Infected's teeth had left in his arm.
x x x x
Three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago when the infection hit.
Twenty-one days since I saw my father die.
Seventeen days since I've seen another normal human being.
My name is Kari Benson. This is my story.
I've been holed up in this house ever since.
They think they've got me, but they're wrong. I won't let them win this one.
I know there must be others out there. Others like me, still normal, still alive.
They can't have gotten them all.
So I'll wait. I'll wait, and I'll write about the Infected. I'll gather information, document their symptoms. I'll beat them.
I'll find others, and I'll beat them. We'll beat them together. This won't be in vain. I may only be a thirteen year old girl, but I'll beat them, so help me God, I will find a way to fix this.
That, or I'll slaughter every one of them. So help me God.
This will not be the way the world ends.
x x x x
2800 miles away, another man woke with a start.
x x x x
He felt tired. It was rare that he got a good night's sleep nowadays – he was too worked up about the things that circled around him outside, snarling and crying out in their feral, sick hunger.
He was tired, but he would go about his business as usual.
Something warm and sticky slapped him across the face once, then repeatedly. The corners of his mouth twitched before breaking out into a half-grin. "How'd you sleep?" he asked. Of course, the dog didn't answer, just continued licking his face in its dog-happy manner. He laughed.
"I don't care how much you try, I'm not getting you that Pedigree bone. It'll cut your gums, you know. It's dangerous. I've got to be your dentist, you know."
The German Shepherd cocked its head at him and let out a soft bark. He laughed again. "Look, we'll compromise. No Pedigree, but I found a cool pet store yesterday. We'll raid it today, and I'll bring you back one of those funny barbecue flavoured chew toys. You dig that?"
Bark! Good. That must mean yes. The dog's tail wagged furiously, and it resumed licking his face. He playfully rubbed its head. "Alright, alright, let's go Sam," Robert Neville said, and as one they left the room and went downstairs.